


nous marchons sous un ciel gris

by antumbral



Category: Chansons d'Amour
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:44:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/pseuds/antumbral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erwann and Alice meet for coffee once a week. Neither one entirely knows why they do it, but the ritual continues nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nous marchons sous un ciel gris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annemari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annemari/gifts).



> Generous, enormous thanks to my amazing betas, who made this so much better than it might have been. They sorted my verb mistakes, and endured my typos, and in every way made this story into what it is. If you like something, it's probably their fault.

Outside, car wheels pitched raindrops onto the café's glass tabletops, soaking the napkins in their scrolled iron holders. Alice patted her hair -- wet like the napkins, drooping. She looked like she'd been dragged across the Rhine through the rain, even though the walk from the cab to the awning over the café door was only a few steps. Sometimes Parisian rain was more like artillery bursts than simple buckets.

To her right, the faint sound of throat-clearing drew her attention away from the streets, and a waitress in a white button-down shirt handed her the cappuccino she'd ordered. The foam on top had a smiley face drawn into it, distorted by the waitress's motions in fetching it to her. Alice sighed at the bartender's hopeful expression, visible over the waitress's shoulder. In truth, she'd have been more interested in the waitress herself, but the day was wet, she looked like she'd half-drowned on the way into town, and she was in no mood for flirtation.

"Thank you," she said to the waitress, perfunctory, and turned back to the street. The rain cast the pale stone buildings into shades of blue and grey. Melancholy colors. Alice pushed a damp strand behind her ear.

It must have been ten minutes later (twenty-three cars had passed; she'd counted) when Erwann appeared from up the street, small umbrella in one hand, the bottoms of his trousers soaked and dark. Alice took another sip of her cooling coffee as he approached the entrance.

A bell above the door announced his arrival with a tinny clatter, and the chair beside her scraped back across slate floors.

"You're late," she said, no accusation in her voice. A simple statement.

"The rain." His umbrella shed a pool of water on the floor, no larger than the bottom of her trendy green coffee mug.

"I didn't bring an umbrella in the cab," she said in explanation of her hair.

Erwann nodded. They never actually spoke much during these meetings, and sometimes she wondered why they continued to bother. His coffee arrived, cappuccino also, but no smiley face this time. After a few more moments watching the cars pass by in silence he reached into his bag.

"You left this the last time." In his hand was a worn copy of _Le Rouge et le Noir_. The top left corner of the paper cover was torn off, just like the one that had resided on her shelf since college. The last time they'd met, she'd told him that she'd bought it just that day.

"Did you read it?" she asked, curious.

"Ismaël did." He turned his coffee cup on the table, his long fingers nervous. She suspected that this was a lie, but was grateful for the consideration. It was a deliberate subject change and a peace offering, a gift of the idea that Ismaël might think of her still. He turned the cup again to lift the handle. Alice sipped her coffee at the same time.

Erwann knew that she orbitted them -- the couple that was himself and Ismaël -- cautiously, unsure sometimes of her place now she was not the one in Ismaël's bed. She was still the one who knew how Julie looked when they'd awakened in the mornings, back when it was the three of them. At work she and Ismaël were comfortable friends, but at night she sometimes wondered darkly whether he thought only of Erwann when they kissed. She wasn't jealous, merely curious.

"He's started cooking again," Erwann said, apropos of nothing. Alice pondered the information, wondering why it was this that he had chosen to tell her.

Erwann only knew that Ismaël cooked for himself and Julie because Alice had told him once, by accident. It had slipped past without her knowing in a meeting rather like this one, outside a sunny café just after they'd gotten the quarterly edition of the magazine to print.

She tries to guard her memories of their old life, sensing that none of them want the two separate parts of Ismaël's love to pass too closely. She knows that Ismaël has never taken Erwann with him to his weekly dinners with Julie's family, though he has often taken Alice. Ismaël still keeps their old apartment, but now lives with Erwann. When last she'd gone to pick up one of her sweaters from the old place, there was a layer of dust on the floor. Ismaël will always track the timeline of his life in patterns of _With Julie_ and _After Julie_ , but is considerate enough not to want Erwann to have see it daily. Erwann chooses to come to these coffee meetings with her on his own; she suspects that Ismaël does not know.

"That's good," she said at last, after another five cars have passed. "What did he make for you?"

"Lasagna."

She raised her coffee cup to take a sip, only to find it empty. The bartender clinked glasses in the sink behind them. Alice took a deep breath. "Don't ask him to make coq au vin."

Erwann looked at her, on the verge of a question, but said nothing. Alice watched the pavement absently, remembering. In the rain, the street seemed to ripple with each passing vehicle, little wakes of reflected sky streaming out from the tires.

Eventually, Alice made a decision. "It was her favorite," she said. "He always cooked it for her birthday."

Erwann blinked, inhaling deeply. "What did he cook for your birthdays?"

"We went out," she said absently. It hadn't mattered. Julie had always been been particularly accommodating in bed on Alice's birthday, and Ismaël had never interfered, merely watched them.

Erwann made a noise of acknowledgement, neutral.

The edge of her cup had a rim of foam left around it, but only dregs of liquid in the bottom. "I should be going," she said, rising, and slipped a five Franc note under the porcelain salt shaker on the table. He rose also.

"Here, take this." He handed over the umbrella, partially dried. The handle had his initials on it, _ES_. "You can get it back to me sometime. Give it to Ismaël to return at work or something."

"Thank you," she said, and turned to leave. The bell above the door jangled again as she exited.

The umbrella was the eighth such object -- a book she'd left accidentally, a CD he'd loaned her, a key dropped on his way out of the café door. Excuses, really; promises with no commitment. She could give the umbrella to Ismaël at work. Or she could call Erwann and ask about meeting next week to return it.


End file.
